


Whatever the Rules Allow

by raskin



Category: Whitechapel (TV)
Genre: Angst, Boss/Employee Relationship, Comfort, Fraternization, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Pining, Possibly Pre-Slash, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-06
Updated: 2014-04-06
Packaged: 2018-01-18 10:04:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1424482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raskin/pseuds/raskin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Joseph Chandler would never flout departmental regulations.  Emerson Kent must be satisfied with a relationship that would always, only, be professional and circumspect.  Then Sir points out that there's nothing in the rulebook that says they can't be friends...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whatever the Rules Allow

The incident room was in semi-darkness, lit only here and there by small desk lamps and Chandler’s computer screen. It illuminated his face, making him appear to be an angel. Kent, who wanted nothing more than to sit at his feet and admire, or at least take a chair across from him, kept himself busy instead. He cleared his colleagues’ desks of trash, straightened files, watered plants. Finally, with nothing left to do, he approached his boss’s desk. “Sir.”

“Yes?” Chandler blinked a couple of times, but didn’t take his eyes from the screen. 

“Are you, uhm, working on anything that I could help with?”

Chandler did look up then, his eyes inexplicably sad. “No, not really, Kent.”

For Kent, this was the worst part of the day, taking leave of his Sir. “Very good. Well, I suppose I should—”

“I was just reviewing departmental regulations,” Chandler said. He didn't seem inclined to continue this offhand accounting of his time.

“I see…” Kent took a step backward towards the door, about to say goodnight.

“Where to park at a crime scene. What may and may not be submitted as an expense,” he said in a defeated tone. Then he added, “What sort of relationship a superior officer may have with those under his authority.”

Kent froze.

“And what relationships are forbidden.” Looking back at the screen, Chandler struggled to swallow, then cleared his throat. “The comments suggest the bases for the prohibitions include conflict of interest, and adverse impacts on supervision, safety, security or morale. The goal is to protect the public, the department, and both the superior and the junior…”

Still he could not move. He focused on his Sir’s mouth (an easy task, given how beautiful it was), while his mind raced. There had to be a reason the D.I. was relaying this information. God forbid it was to warn him off. He’d tried to be the ultimate professional, but realized that his efforts were not nearly adequate to hide his affection. His boss was a detective, after all. His face began to burn in shame.

“…and romantic relationships,” Chandler was saying, though Kent had missed what came before that. “They needn’t be physical. Even solely emotional… entanglements can be disruptive.”

Kent couldn’t tear his eyes away, though they were starting to burn. The message was clear, and his heart wrenched at the finality of it.

“However, the regulations are silent on the subject of friendships.” Chandler now looked up, compelling Kent to meet his eyes. “Even… companionship is not precluded. Or so it seems.”

Kent’s knees buckled.

“Would you like to sit down, Emerson?” Chandler’s voice held the same gentleness as his eyes.

It was all he could do to keep from stumbling the few steps to the chair facing his D.I. “Thank you, sir.” 

By the time he'd settled on the seat, Chandler's aspect had transformed from stiff and formal to casual and relaxed. He even drummed his fingertips on the desktop a few times. “So, seen any good movies recently?" 

Kent couldn't help but laugh at the banality of it. And just like that they were chatting like life-long mates, covering entertainment, sports (neither particularly interested in football compared to Andy Murray's chances of ever attaining a world number one ranking), and international politics (Vladimir vs Barak). Then Sir said, his smile now tentative, "So, er, it seems neither of us has anything to rush home for. No one waiting for us.”

“Uh-uh.” Kent was proud of himself for managing a reply, even one so inarticulate. He decided to try harder, if only to relieve his Sir from the burden of driving this conversation. “No, I live alone.”

Chandler’s gaze became, if anything, more keen. “You’ve never lived with someone? Had a serious relationship, that is? Or maybe I shouldn't ask. I don't want you to feel that I'm prying. Or putting you on the spot.”

“Never.” Kent broke in. He decided then not to squander this opportunity, not when his Sir was holding the door wide open. He dared to ask, “Have you?”

“No,” Chandler said, “though I have been in love.”

Kent sensed that the door was not only open, but he was being beckoned through it. After what he hoped was a perfectly natural pause when two friends were just chatting about past loves, he asked, “Oh?”

Chandler held his eyes. “She was lovely. Short, curly dark hair. An adorable pointed little chin. Large hazel-brown eyes that too often had shadows beneath them. I always wondered what caused those shadows. But I was too afraid to ask.”

It was a good thing he was seated, because his joints were turning to jelly while his muscles tightened around his chest, making it painful to breath. His heart was pounding loudly, threatening to drown out his Sir’s next words. 

“She always seemed so serious. I wanted to know everything about her, to find out her every thought. What drove her to work so hard. What moved her emotionally. What would get her to laugh.”

Kent’s mouth was dry, and swallowing was painful. His mind was overtaken by a swirling fog of disbelief and absolute joy. He would never forget these words, or the ethereal expression on the face of the man who was speaking them. He wanted to laugh, to cry, to jump across the desk.

When Kent’s body did finally react, it instinctively prevented him from doing anything untoward. He twisted in his chair, flexed his legs, ducked his head, licked his lips. All safe, normal reflexive movements. He hated that the delicious tension was broken, but he might not have been able to survive much more at any rate. He had to say something. It was his turn, in this surreal conversation between friends. Again, his best attempt sounded pathetic to his own ears. “So, what happened? I mean, how did it end?”

Chandler’s eyes softened noticeably, became dark and large. “Oh, I didn’t say it ended, this love. In fact, it’s stronger than ever. As for what will happen, well, it’s going to be complicated and maybe impossible, but…” His jaw worked and his brow furrowed, displaying the war between desperate yearning and disciplined patience.

“But…?” Kent whispered. 

“But,” said Chandler, his eyes never leaving Kent’s, “some of the best mysteries take a lifetime to solve. And as you know, I never give up.”


End file.
